Silent Lullaby
by Bayleef
Summary: Prompt: Oz is having nightmares about his past namely, his father , and he doesn't know how to handle them. He doesn't want to bother anyone with them, so naturally they go unattended. That is, until a certain Gilbert finds out... Oneshot


I finally decided to try filling another prompt on the Kink Meme.

I think I've been reading too many varied styles lately; it's messing with my writing XP Oh well! It was just for fun XD Also wanted to try a different approach after I read one of my sister's fics :D

Oh, and the touchy stuff was because the requester wanted smutty undertones, but I fail at smutt XD;

**Prompt:** Oz is having nightmares about his past (namely, his father), and he doesn't know how to handle them. He doesn't want to bother anyone with them, so naturally they go unattended. That is, until a certain Gilbert finds out.

**I do not own Pandora Hearts! **If I did, GilXOz would be even MORE canon! XD

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**Silent Lullaby**

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Gilbert had not meant to hear it.

He had noticed that Oz had been uncharacteristically quiet for just over a week now. Almost every morning the young Bezarius heir would descend the staircase in silence, take his seat at the table, and fail to consume so much as a single bite of his breakfast until he was queried directly about his loss of appetite, or his brooding nature. He would respond in his own typical fashion; he would laugh, brush off the inquirers concerns, snatch up a slice of toast and take an encouraging bite out of it, throwing himself instantly into whatever the present topic of conversation had been.

He rarely finished his food.

Gilbert had been concerned about his master's attitude, but it only seemed to show itself in the morning. By noon there was no sign of those worrying shadows in his eyes, that contemplative frown on his face. He was just Oz, and just like Oz he brushed off the dark-haired mans questions with the flippant excuse that he had been up late reading, or something equally trivial. And so Gilbert had put his worries aside, for now at least. If this continued for another three days, he decided, then he would return to the problem.

But then he had seen, or rather heard, exactly what was troubling his master.

Presently, due to a lull in Pandora assignments, Gilbert, Oz and Alice were resting in the Reinsworth mansion. He had wanted to return to his apartment, but Sharon and insisted on their staying. He consented without much protest; at least this way Oz could sleep in a proper bed, rather than on the sofa (that Stupid Rabbit always took the bed). The three guest rooms they were given were side-by-side, something which prompted Gilbert to wonder why he had not heard it sooner.

His masters whimpering, his frantic mumbling, the rustle of fabric as he twisted and turned and tossed uncomfortably in his sleep. At first Gilbert had been shocked - Oz never let his emotions to show when he could help it - and had remained standing in the doorway, pondering on the best way to raise his master from his nightmare.

"Father... Father... Please..."

Gilbert felt an ice-cold torrent wash over him as his master's fingers clenched the material of his pillow, whimpering softly, sounding so sad, so sorry, so small that Gilbert could scarcely believe it was the same empowered young noble that was his master. He did not need to see the tears forming in his masters eyes to know they were there; the slight croak in his voice told the dark-haired servant everything.

He could not wake him, not when he was like this.

But he had to do something.

Gilbert moved to his master's side in long, delicate strides, his footsteps soundless.

Years of training and honed his skill in silence; like a Raven, he was often an omen. A bearer of misfortune. A bringer of death. But just like a ghost, he moved without sound. Silent. Invisible in the night. An Angel of Death, Vincent had once called him, his voice dripping with sinister pleasure at the thought. The image had haunted him every time his fingers had touched the trigger of his gun for weeks after.

He removed the glove on his right hand - the left he kept clad at all times unless he had to release B-Rabbit's power - and slipped it into his pocket, then seated himself gently on the bed beside his master, who showed no signs of rising from his nightmare, no awareness of his servants presence. Gilbert raised his hand and allowed it to hover over Oz's head for a moment, before gently pressing his fingertips to the boys head. Feather-soft and slow, his slipped his fingers through Oz's hair, straightening lightly tangled strands, before returning to repeat the action.

Oz continued to whimper, to clutch his pillow, but Gilbert continued silently. He placed his cool palm flat against the boy's head after a few minutes, and continued to stroke his master's locks gently. The cords in his throat constricted, begging him to speak, to offer words of comfort, to simply sush the distressed teen, to hum, but he didn't.

On one occasion that Miss Ada had had a nightmare and had come to her brothers room seeking comfort, Oz had gathered his sister in his arms and held her close, stroking her hair with a tenderness saved solely for her, and told her everything would be alright, that he would protect her from the scary monsters, and she had no need to be afraid.

And then he had begun to sing.

It was a lullaby, he had told Gil in a quiet voice once Ada had fallen asleep in his arms, that his mother used to sing to him when he had nightmares. He spoke of the memory fondly, and continued to hum the tune to his sleeping sister long after his young servant had left the room.

Gilbert did not remember the melody, and even if he did he would not have dared to try and sing it, for fear of tarnishing the memory of it that his master clearly cherished. Raven's cannot sing. They can only make harsh, frightening cries, dark and foreboding.

Should he speak, his master would wake.

Should he speak, Oz would never again allow his door to remain unlocked, fearful of what his servant may see or hear on another night-time stroll.

Should he speak, his master would lock him out, would pretend, would lie, so that he would not be a bother. He would be alone.

And so Gilbert was quiet, restraining the Raven's call, the promise of darkness, of solitude. In silence, he lay down next to his master, facing him, and ran his fingers through the blond's hair softly. He traced the contours of his face with his fingertips, teased the flesh of his pale neck, his shoulder, his arm, his side, drawing the boy's attention from the demon in his mind to the curious caresses on his skin. So gentle, almost non-existent, it failed to raise him from sleep.

Slowly, the young blondes whimpering subsided, the tears in his eyes falling, but ceasing afterwards. His laboured breath calmed, but continued to quiver; Gilbert's hand lay on Oz's side, their faces mere inches apart. The raven's breathe ghosted across the boys face, slow, controlled, warm, somehow comforting. His hand slid slowly up his master's body, up his side, over his shoulder, coming to rest on the side of the boys head.

Oz sighed.

Gilbert smiled, and before he moved away, before he slipped from the room like a shadow, he pressed his lips ever so gently against the boys forehead.

A wordless 'goodnight'.

The next morning, Oz woke up in a much brighter mood. He ate and spoke without restraint, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, or at least had been greatly lessened. Gilbert smiled and watched and enjoyed his master's energy.

But he never said a word.

And Oz never found out.

Never knew that every night, Gilbert would stand by his door long after the rest of the mansion had slipped into the land of dreams. And every time his master sounded distressed, Gil would lie with him, would comfort him, would cover him once the boy had calmed, and would return to his own room without uttering a single word.

Oz never knew.

But it was what saved him.

That presence in his dreams, that sense that there was someone close, protecting him, guarding him from his father's bitterness and contempt with a blanket of warmth and concern.

A mystery he would treasure, a ghost that he would quietly thank, a feeling he would never forget.

The warmth of Gilbert's Silent Lullaby.

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**The End**


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